He strapped himself firmly into his seat and, fortified by several whiskies beforehand and a medicinal patch plastered on the inside of his elbow to ward against spacesickness, he gripped the seat’s armrests and listened with growing apprehension to the countdown.
Takeoff terrified him. It was like an explosion that jolted every bone in his body. He felt squashed down in his seat, then before he could utter a word of complaint he was weightless, floating against the straps of his safety harness, his stomach rising up into his throat despite the medicine patch. Swallowing bile, he reached for the retch bags tucked into the pouch on the seat back in front of him.
By the time the Clippership had docked with the space station, Wilcox was wishing that he’d insisted on holding the damnable hearing on Earth. There were plenty of smiling, uniformed Astro personnel to help him out of the Clippership and into the transfer vehicle that would go the rest of the way to the Moon. Groaning in zero gravity, Wilcox allowed them to haul him around like a helpless invalid and tuck him into a seat on the transfer ship that was far less comfortable then the Clippership’s had been.
At least there was some feeling of gravity when the transfer vehicle started its high-thrust burn Moonward. But that dwindled away all too soon, and for the next several hours Wilcox wondered if he was going to survive this journey.
Gradually, though, he began to feel better. His stomach didn’t feel so queasy; the pressure behind his eyes eased off. If he didn’t turn his head or make any sudden moves, zero gravity was almost pleasurable.
Once they landed at Selene’s Armstrong spaceport, the light lunar gravity gave Wilcox a renewed sense of up-and-down. He was able to unstrap and get out of his chair without help. He stumbled at first, but by the time he had been checked through customs and rented a pair of weighted boots, he felt almost normal.
The soothing elegance of the Hotel Luna’s lobby helped Wilcox to feel even more at home. Quiet luxury always pleased him, and although the lobby was slightly tatty here and there, the general tone and atmosphere of the place was reassuring. The local IAA flunkies had taken the best suite in Selene’s only hotel for him. Spare no expense, Wilcox thought as he looked around the sumptuous sitting room, so long as it’s coming out of the taxpayers’ pocketbook and not mine. An assistant manager brought him to the suite, unpacked his bags for him, and even politely refused the tip Wilcox preferred. The hotel staff had prepared everything for him, including a well-stocked bar. One good jolt of whisky and Wilcox felt almost normal again.
There was a tap on the door, and before Wilcox could say a word, the door slid open and a liveried servant pushed in a rolling table laden with covered dishes and a half-dozen bottles of wine.
Surprised, Wilcox began to protest, “I didn’t order—”
Then Martin Humphries walked into the suite, all smiles.
“I thought you’d appreciate a good meal, Hector,” said Humphries. “This is from my own kitchen, not the regular hotel fare.” Gesturing toward the bottles, he added, “From my own cellar, too.”
Wilcox broke into a genuinely pleased smile. “Why, Martin, for goodness’ sake. How kind of you.”
As the waiter silently set out their dinner, Humphries explained, “We shouldn’t be seen in a public restaurant together, and I couldn’t invite you down to my home without it seeming improper….”
“Quite so,” Wilcox agreed. “Too many damnable snoops willing to believe the worst about anyone.”
“So I decided to bring dinner to you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all! I’m delighted to see you again. How long has it been?”
“I’ve been living here in Selene for more than six years now.”
“Has it been that long?” Wilcox brushed his moustache with a fingertip. “But, eh … aren’t we running the risk of seeming impropriety? After all, with the hearing coming up—”
“No risk at all,” Humphries said smoothly. “This man is a loyal employee of mine, and the hotel people can be relied on to be discreet.”